


The Girl With the Lightning Scar (Year One)

by minervamylove



Series: The Lightning Years [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Gryffindor Harry Potter, Harry is a hatstall, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Mentor Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall is a badass, Minerva McGonagall/Poppy Pomfrey - Freeform, Multi, Slytherin Harry Potter, but for god's sake don't tell him that, but there you have it, girl!Harry, harry makes some different choices than in canon, i don't know why dumbledore would ever make minerva and severus basically coparent an 11 year old, like more of a hatstall than usual, snape is less of a complete and utter dick and more of a super problematic fairy godmother, that's a terrible idea, the story reacts accordingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9668555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamylove/pseuds/minervamylove
Summary: Eleven-year-old Harriet Potter is eking out a miserable existence at Number Four, Privet Drive. Then a letter arrives that changes everything. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, life is certainly more dangerous-- but it's also a hell of a lot more interesting. And thanks to Harry's newfound friends, it's also much more full of love and light. But will that be enough to overcome the growing darkness at the heart of the wizarding world?





	1. Harriet Receives a Letter

**Author's Note:**

> \- There will doubtless be bits, pieces, and possibly even large chunks reproduced from the original series, as I have no desire to rewrite what doesn't need to be rewritten. If it looks familiar, it probably is.  
> \- That being said, everything belongs to Queen JK Rowling, obviously.  
> \- 'Harry' is a nickname, not a typo.

The moment that Harriet laid eyes on the letter, she knew that she couldn’t let the Dursleys see it. Addressed to _her_ , cupboard and all,  it was so clearly the property of Harriet Lily Potter that it would certainly give her aunt and uncle immense joy to deprive her of it. So Harriet did what she had plenty of practice doing: she thought fast. 

“Potter! We haven’t got all day! What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” 

Harriet winced slightly. “Coming, Uncle Vernon!” And she set off toward the kitchen at a brisk clip, but not before sliding the thick envelope with its curling emerald-green script under the door of the hall cupboard where she slept. 

When she presented the remaining mail to her uncle, he snatched the bundle of letters from her hands without so much as a grunt of thanks. He shuffled aside some bills and adverts with obvious annoyance, before extricating a postcard bearing a photograph of the Isle of Wight. 

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Petunia, Harriet’s aunt. “Ate a funny whelk. I have told her about eating foreign food…” 

Harriet, unable to contain herself, snorted. Only the Dursleys would ever consider the Isle of Wight to be _foreign._ She rather regretted her indiscretion a moment later, when Aunt Petunia dealt her a smart cuff to the back of the head. 

“That’s quite enough from you,” Aunt Petunia sniffed. “Now, finish up breakfast and get out of my sight.” Harriet adjusted her glasses, which had been knocked loose by the blow.

In some situations, the phrase _finish up breakfast_ might be referring to the consumption of said breakfast. Harriet, however, was not naive enough to think for even a moment that Aunt Petunia was concerned with her nourishment. So she hauled out the cast-iron skillet from underneath the stove and proceeded to prepare the morning’s fry-up: Full English minus the tomatoes, as her monstrous cousin, Dudley, despised all vegetables and didn’t want them touching his sausages and beans. One day, at the age of eight, Harriet had unwisely remarked that beans _were_ vegetables. She had been locked in her cupboard for two days for her trouble, accused of “putting Dudley off his food.” _As if Dudley could ever be put off his food_ , she thought now, watching her cousin dig into his baked beans with disgusting relish. She shook her head, managed to snag a piece of dry toast without alerting her aunt, and hurried from the kitchen before any of the Dursleys could think of another chore that needed doing. 

Knowing that the Dursleys would find it suspicious if she retired to her cupboard of her own free will, she merely nipped inside and grabbed the mysterious letter, stuffing it down her shirt. She headed out the front door, careful not to make too much noise. With any luck, she had twenty to thirty minutes before she was summoned for kitchen cleanup, and she intended to make use of every second. 

Harriet walked quickly down Privet Drive, turned left on Wisteria Walk, and made for the shelter of a beech tree between the gardens of Number 7 and Number 9. Once she sat down against the trunk, half-hidden behind Number 9’s hedge, she pulled out the letter. 

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of a yellowing parchment. There was no stamp. The front read: 

_Ms. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging, Surrey_

When Harriet turned it over, she saw that the envelope was sealed in the old-fashioned way, with scarlet wax imprinted with an ornamental letter ‘H.’ She prised it open, and was greeted by an elaborate heading, which read: 

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supremem Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Ms. Potter,_ the letter read, 

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress._

Also included in the envelope were a long list of supplies, and something that looked like a train ticket.

Harriet stared at the letter. Witchcraft? Wizardry? Surely those things couldn’t exist. And even if they did, they wouldn’t be for _her—_ pathetic, unwanted, orphan Harriet Potter, bane of the Durleys’ existence, could not possibly be a witch. But even as she thought that, Harriet couldn’t stop the wheels turning in the back of her mind. Was this letter the explanation for all of the strange things that had happened in her short life? 

Once, Aunt Petunia had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut Harriet’s hair into a blunt, horrible bob, leaving her bangs long and thick “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harriet, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where she was already laughed at for her baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had hacked it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she _couldn’t_ explain how it had grown back so quickly. 

And minor incidents like that paled in comparison to the day of the vanishing glass. Before the summer holidays had started, Dudley’s birthday trip to the zoo had gone horribly awry when Harriet had a conversation with a Brazilian boa constrictor and somehow set it loose from its enclosure. When Harriet had experienced the twin emotions of pity for the trapped snake and anger at her brutish cousin shoving her aside, the glass of the boa’s enclosure had simply disappeared, leaving Harriet with the unshakeable feeling that she was somehow behind it all. 

Wouldn’t witchcraft explain all of these things? Didn’t it only make sense that the little talents and troubles that had dogged Harriet’s footsteps all her life added up to something bigger?  Besides, if the letter wasn't authentic, what was it? She had no one in her life aside from the Dursleys, and while they were certainly nasty enough to play a prank on her, she doubted that they were intelligent or imaginative enough to conceive of something like this. 

Harriet stood up, tucking the envelope and it contents back down her shirt. Twenty minutes had passed. She needed to get back to Number 4. 

Aunt Petunia, not altogether unexpectedly, had indeed noticed her absence, and boxed her soundly around the ears before ordering her to clean up the kitchen. But Harriet, accustomed as she was to her aunt’s blows, barely even noticed. She was cooking up a scheme to contact Deputy Headmistress McGonagall and get some answers.


	2. The Lioness

It was safe to say, as she strode up to the gates of Hogwarts School and bypassed the wards with an irritated wave of her hand, that Minerva McGonagall was not amused. It was early July. She had assembled the year’s book lists and made certain that they were sent out to incoming students. She had owled the names of all the Muggle-born first years to Charity Burbage and Silvanus Kettleburn, who were in charge of meeting with them to ease the transition between the non-magical and magical worlds. By rights, Minerva’s administrative work for the summer should have been done. She should have been settled in at her home outside of Inverness, free to read _Transfiguration Today_ and look over her lesson plans for the upcoming term. 

Instead, Minerva was on her way to see Albus Dumbledore. It wasn’t so much that she minded the interruption of her leisure— Minerva was a responsible witch and work would always come first. No, what she minded was the _reason_ she had just Apparated halfway across Scotland, the _reason_ she had growled out Albus’s current candy-related password with such ire. 

Having bypassed the gargoyle, she raised a demanding fist to knock at the Headmaster’s office door. 

Albus, unsurprisingly, called out “Come in, Minerva,” before her hand had even made contact with the door. 

Albus, ever the gentleman, stood as she entered, as did the room’s other occupant. 

“Ah,” Minerva said, pausing briefly. “Severus.” 

The two men made, as they always did, quite the contrast. Albus Dumbledore was wearing deep purple robes today, lined with magenta and piped with gold. His silver hair and beard hung to his waist, and his bright blue eyes glittered behind the half-moon spectacles perched on his long, crooked nose. 

Severus Snape was a different story. Hogwarts’ resident Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House wore black, high-necked teaching robes over a black waistcoat and black trousers. If not the for white cuffs of his shirtsleeves peeking out from the flared wrists of his robes, it would have appeared that he did not own any non-black clothing. Even his lank hair was black, as were his eyes. 

Severus acknowledged his fellow professor with a brusque nod. “Minerva.” 

Albus waved his wand, conjuring a second armchair next to the one that Severus had obviously been using. “Do join us, Minerva. Severus and I were merely discussing some new additions to the OWL-level Potions curriculum.” 

Minerva, for her part, highly doubted that, but she took a seat nonetheless. Severus, on the other hand, made no move to sit down, and indeed looked as though he was more than ready to leave. Albus raised an eyebrow, and Severus surrendered with a put-upon sigh. 

Once everyone was arranged to his satisfaction, Albus summoned a tea service with another expert flick of his wand. There were two teapots, which Minerva summarily realized contained Earl Grey and Darjeeling— Severus’s preferred brew and her own. Albus must have alerted the house-elves the moment she had crossed the wards. 

“Now, Minerva,” Albus said, selecting a biscuit from the assortment provided on the tea tray, “I gather from your rather stiff bearing and the fact that you’ve cut short your holiday that something has caused you considerable distress?”

“Harriet Potter.” Minerva kept her focus on Albus. She didn’t need to look at Severus to know how he would react to _that_ name. 

Albus looked up from the biscuits. “Harriet Potter?” 

Predictably, Severus made a disgusted noise. “Don’t tell me the brat’s causing trouble before she’s even arrived?” 

“That will be quite enough, Severus, thank you,” Albus rebuked the Potions Master calmly. “Minerva, would you be so kind as to elaborate?” 

Minerva waved her wand, conjuring up the letter that she had Vanished for safekeeping. She unfolded it and handed it to Albus, having already more or less committed its contents to her memory. 

The letter was written on lined paper that looked as if it had been torn from a Muggle child’s school exercise book. The message was in blue ink in a child’s messy hand, although it looked to Minerva like the child in question had at least made some effort towards legibility. The letter read: 

_Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,_

_Thank you very much for the letter of acceptance to your school. I’m not quite sure what you mean about awaiting my owl, but there have been rather a lot of owls around the house the last few days. I think they look at me when I go outside. So I’m writing this letter and hoping that I figure out what to do with it because I can’t find a post address for your school._

_I’m sorry but I don’t understand your letter entirely. My aunt and uncle say there is no such thing as magic but sometimes I think I make things happen. Does that make me a witch? Where do I buy witch things like cauldrons and the other things on your list? Do witch things cost very much?_

_I am sorry to bother you but I hope this reaches you._

_Yours sincerely Harriet Potter_

The ever-present twinkle in Albus’s eyes seemed to fade as he read the letter. When he was finished, he passed it to Severus, whose dark eyes narrowed as he held the paper rather close to his nose, as if he were trying to see through it rather than read it. The room remained silent (except for the incessant chiming of Albus’s infernal knickknacks) until Severus, too, had absorbed the letter’s contents. Then he broke the silence.

“It figures that Petunia would pull something like this.”

Albus nodded solemnly. “Jealousy and fear are powerful forces. More powerful, it would appear, than I had hoped.” 

Minerva could hardly believe her ears. Neither of the men sounded nearly as surprised as they should have. “Just what exactly is the meaning of this? Do you mean to imply, Albus, that you knew Miss Potter’s guardians would deny her heritage? Would deny her powers?” 

Albus sighed. “No, I did not know. However, Petunia Evans— now Dursley— was jealous of her sister’s talents from quite a young age. It would seem that her jealousy has transformed into some form of denial.” 

“Tuney always was bitter,” Severus muttered. 

“ _Bitter?_ ” Minerva cried. “These people have kept _everything_ from her! Well, you wanted her growing up out of the spotlight, Albus, and that’s certainly been achieved!” 

Albus’s expression grew slightly pained. “Minerva, I truly did not know.” 

“We should have known. She’s the Girl-Who-Lived, we should have checked.” 

Albus inclined his head in acknowledgement of Minerva’s point. “You may very well be right. I’m afraid that I’ve put my faith in the blood wards for all these years. Lily’s blood— Petunia’s blood— was meant to keep Harriet safe.”

“The girl’s safety isn’t the issue,” Severus said tonelessly. “The issue is Petunia.” 

Minerva got to her feet. “I want to collect her, Albus. When it’s time to help her sort out her things.” 

“Ah, yes,” Albus mused. “That should do quite nicely. I’m sure that Charity and Silvanus rather have their hands full with the Muggle-born students. Do take Hagrid with you; I understand that he’s quite keen to see Harriet again.”

Minerva nodded shortly. “Of course.” 

“Well.” The twinkle, as Minerva was both relieved and annoyed to see, was beginning to return to Albus’s eyes. “There’s that settled. Do stay for tea, Minerva. I have some news that concerns both you and Severus regarding the Philosopher’s Stone…” 


	3. Owls and Other Dilemmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! It's been a crazy month. I'll do my best not to have such huge gaps between chapters in the future.

Harriet was in a pickle. Sending off her letter to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall had turned out to be surprisingly easy, as she had been all but mobbed by eager owls when she stepped out the door with her missive, and one of them had snatched the envelope out of her hand and flown off without further ado. What wasn’t quite so easily dealt with was the Dursleys’ reaction to this particular set of circumstances. It was Harriet’s bad luck that Aunt Petunia had been peering out the kitchen window in her usual suspicious manner when the mail-mad owls had set upon her. The resulting kerfuffle was even more dramatic than the fallout from the vanishing glass incident at the zoo. Aunt Petunia hauled Harriet into the living room by her ear and forced her painfully down onto the stiff settee next to the cold, gleaming fireplace. Uncle Vernon was summoned for his customary duty of shouting himself hoarse while Dudley sniggered in a corner like Harriet’s plight was his favorite comedy television show.

“What the devil do you think you were doing?” bellowed Uncle Vernon. “Cavorting about the street with those filthy birds like some sort of weirdo!” 

“She gave one of them a letter,” hissed Aunt Petunia. “It’s something to do with _their_ set, Vernon.” 

Uncle Vernon, in his two signature moves, purpled and swelled. Harriet barely had time to wonder what, exactly, Aunt Petunia was talking about before Uncle Vernon bent with startling speed and seized Harriet forcefully by the collar. 

“What have you done, you little freak?”

“Nothing,” gasped Harriet. _Deny, deny, deny_ , she thought. It was the only defense against the Dursleys, even if it wasn’t a good one. Uncle Vernon only gripped her more tightly. “Haven’t— done— anything—” 

“Oh, don’t give us that,” Aunt Petunia snapped. “We know perfectly well what your sort do with owls. Who was that letter for?” 

“My… my sort?” Harriet choked out. _Hang on. That almost sounds like_ … Harriet jerked away from Uncle Vernon almost involuntarily, and at the same time he released her collar with a yelp, as if something had stung his fingers. Harriet forgot to deny. She forgot everything except for Aunt Petunia’s too-knowledgeable remarks. “You _knew_?” said Harriet. “You _knew_ I’m a— a witch?” 

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “ _Knew!_ Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? I was the only one who saw her for what she was— a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!” 

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years. Uncle Vernon, for his part, looked rather uncomfortable, but he made no move to stop his wife’s diatribe, nor to grab Harriet again. 

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as— _abnormal_ — and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!” 

Harriet had gone very white. As soon as she found her voice she said, “Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!” 

“And that’s all we _will_ tell you!” Aunt Petunia hissed. “Now, _what were you doing_ with those owls? Who were you writing to? Was it that _school_?” She said the word ‘school’ as if it were something very nasty. 

Harriet made a mental note that Aunt Petunia knew about Hogwarts, but kept herself from reacting to the mention of a school. “How did my mum and dad die?” 

“ _Who were you writing to?”_

“I,” Harriet forced out through gritted teeth, “won’t tell you. Not unless _you_ tell _me_ what happened to my parents.” 

Aunt Petunia’s lips pressed together so tightly that it almost looked like the physical force of it might well crack her jaw. Uncle Vernon seemed to decide that he had been quiet long enough— and indeed, his blustering had been conspicuously absent for a couple of minutes now, which was longer than he could usually keep silent. 

“Cupboard!” he roared. “Now!” 

Harriet hesitated. She generally obeyed direct orders more or less immediately; it shielded her from the brunt of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s displeasure. But now she wanted _answers._ “I want to know what happened to my—” But before she could choke out the word ‘parents,’ Uncle Vernon had grabbed her by the collar again and was dragging her bodily from the living room. He threw her into the cupboard under the stairs without ceremony, then slammed the door and slid the bolt of the external lock home with a firm _click_. Then he bent down, his face even with the small grate on the cupboard door. 

“If you want to eat anytime soon,” he said nastily, “You’ll tell your aunt and I what we want to know, you hear?” Then he stomped away, leaving Harriet alone in the darkness of the cupboard with only the dust and spiders for company. She was shaking, though whether it was from fear, adrenaline, or rage she could not tell. With trembling hands, she reached for her thin pillow, feeling around in the pillowcase and pulling out the letter from Hogwarts. With only the slim threads of light coming through the grate, it was far too dark in the cupboard to actually _read_ the letter, but Harriet clutched it nonetheless, tracing her fingers over the parchment to reassure herself that it was real. That _Hogwarts_ was real. That, one way or another, Harriet Potter would get herself free of Privet Drive.


	4. The Serpent Prince

Severus Snape needed a drink. A drink, and ideally a new job. It had been three days since Dumbledore had revealed his lunatic plan to hide the Philosopher’s Stone in Hogwarts, and preparation for the Stone’s protection were already well underway. Severus was pleased enough with his own contribution to the task, or would be once he had finished brewing the more delicate poisons. His fellow staff members, however— or at least those whose protections he knew about— had no such elegance. Sprout’s Devil’s Snare would only hinder the surest of fools, as surely any dunderhead who had received a magical education knew the simple tricks for escaping the wretched plant. As for Hagrid… well, Severus had no idea how the half-giant oaf had acquired a Cerberus, nor did he particularly want to know. Severus could only imagine what half-baked ideas the rest of the staff had come up with. Technically, they weren’t supposed to know what defenses were being mounted, besides their own, but Sprout had required assistance transplanting such a large Devil’s Snare specimen— assistance that Dumbledore had insisted Severus provide. And everyone knew about Hagrid’s beast; there wasn’t the slightest possibility of keeping that thing secret from anyone with half a brain. Luckily, Severus thought wryly, that description excluded the entire student body. 

Oh, the students. They would be descending upon the school in less than two months, shattering the last remnants of peace in the castle— peace that had already been considerably disrupted by this daft Stone business, not to mention the Potter girl’s letter… 

Severus shook his head. It was no use dwelling on what was happening with the little twit, no matter what promises he had made to Dumbledore. The situation was in Minerva’s hands now, and no doubt she would deal with it in the same formidable manner with which she dealt with House affairs— and given that the sodding Girl-Who-Lived was certainly bound to end up in Gryffindor, Minerva (and Dumbledore, for that matter) would surely move Heaven and Earth to see to the girl’s needs. And wouldn’t that pattern continue at school? Wouldn’t she be the favorite, fawned-over little lion like her father before her? For what must have been the thousandth time, Severus berated himself for the oath he’d made nearly ten years ago. He shouldn’t have been so rash as to make promises so quickly, practically over Lily’s cooling corpse, and to Albus Dumbledore of all people. But rash or not, he _had_ made the oath, and now he would be held to it— held to protecting a noxious child who didn’t really need his protection.

It was _not_ going to be a pleasant year. 

But then again, Severus Snape had given up hope for a pleasant _anything_ long before the Potter girl was born. One did not, he reflected, join a dark lord because one was optimistic about the future. As if following this train of thought, the fireplace blazed with the sudden rush of green flames that heralded a Floo call. And there, floating amongst the emerald tendrils of fire, was the head of Narcissa Malfoy. Severus rose from the armchair in which he had been brooding. 

“Narcissa,” he said smoothly, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Narcissa sighed, and it was a lovely noise, deceptively languid in that pure-blood manner she had cultivated to hide her razor-sharp wit and intellect. 

“I’m here at Lucius’s behest,” Narcissa said, her tone of voice letting Severus know exactly what she thought about that. If Severus hadn’t been accustomed to schooling his features into a perfectly blank mask, he might have rolled his eyes. For all his understanding of the pure-blood politics involved, he found the Malfoys’ marriage ridiculous. Narcissa had all the brains and most of the magical talent, yet she persisted in maintaining the illusion that she was nothing more than Lucius’s beautiful, subservient wife. It might have been mildly amusing if not for the way it gave Lucius’s already considerable ego an extremely unneeded boost. Really, the man strutted and preened like one of the absurd albino peacocks that resided on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. 

“And what does Lucius require today?” 

“He has… inquiries about this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum.” 

_Lucius, you nosy bastard._ “You may inform Lucius that the situation continues along the same lines that it always has.” _And damn Dumbledore for it_ , Severus thought. _Why_ he continued to hire these incompetent, babbling dunces to teach the most important subject in the Hogwarts curriculum, he would never know. 

“Ah.” Narcissa had the grace to look slightly regretful. “Condolences, pet.” 

“I believe the Headmaster fears I may… slip into old habits.” 

Narcissa smirked. “Well, he’s not _entirely_ a doddering old fool then.” 

Severus acknowledged Narcissa’s point with a nod, but did not comment. He had no illusions about the strength of Narcissa’s loyalty to the Dark— for all her breeding and the way she’d been raised, Narcissa didn’t care a whit about the Dark Lord or the pure-blood cause. No, Narcissa’s loyalty lay, and had for eleven years, wherever it needed to in order to protect her son. But right now, that was with Lucius. And Lucius, for all his egomania and idiocy, would crawl straight back to the Dark Lord if he ever returned. 

“Draco will be disappointed,” Narcissa continued. “He was _so_ looking forward to receiving your instruction.” 

_He was looking forward to currying favor and showing off at dueling_ , Severus thought, not entirely disparagingly. Really, considering who had fathered Draco, the boy had turned out all right— which, coming from Severus, was saying something, given his inherent dislike of children. “He will receive my instruction in Potions, and I trust that it will be satisfactory.” 

“And the latest Defense professor?” Narcissa fixed him with a sharp gaze. 

Severus sighed. “A Ravenclaw by the name of Quirinus Quirell, quite as useless as the last several idiots.” 

“I don’t want my son’s Defensive training to be lacking, Severus.” Narcissa’s voice was steely. 

Ah, there it was: the true reason for Narcissa’s visit. Lucius didn’t care in the slightest whether or not Dumbledore had finally seen fit to appoint Severus to the Defense Against the Dark Arts position; _Narcissa_ did. He supposed he didn’t blame her. She was overprotective as it was; the thought of a fool like Quirrell being responsible for such an essential piece of Draco’s education was not to be entertained. 

“I will see to it that Draco’s schooling lacks for nothing, Narcissa,” Severus said, his voice a little gentler. “If Quirrell proves unsatisfactory, I will tutor the boy.” 

Narcissa looked grateful— or, as grateful as she ever did, which entailed a slight warmth in her eyes. “Thank you, Severus.” 

Severus inclined his head, this time in a clear dismissal, and Narcissa’s head disappeared in another whoosh of green flames. Severus reclaimed his armchair. Well, that was that. It looked as if Severus would be playing nursemaid to _two_ first years. At least he could stomach Draco’s presence. 

The Floo blazed again, and Severus winced. Was he to have _any_ peace today? 

Apparently, the answer was no, for now Minerva McGonagall’s head, facial features pinched with worry, appeared in his fireplace. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, Severus,” she said, her voice strained. “But there has been a change of timetable regarding the Harriet Potter situation.”

“What has happened?” Severus asked, slightly curious despite himself. What had the girl— or Petunia, come to that— done now? 

“Communications from Miss Potter have ceased,” Minerva answered, “Despite my having sent an owl days ago with explicit instructions for response. I’ve spoken with the Headmaster, and he feels that the situation with her relatives may have escalated. I’m to pay them a visit straightaway, and given the circumstances, the Headmaster thought it prudent that you accompany Hagrid and myself.” 

Severus didn’t need to ask what circumstances Minerva meant. If anyone could bully Petunia Dursley into compliance with the Headmaster’s wishes, it was him— something that Dumbledore knew quite well. 

“Very well, Minerva. I shall fetch my cloak and meet you and Hagrid at the gates.” Minerva gave a brisk nod and disappeared, leaving Severus alone once more. He stood up. There was no use delaying it: Harriet Potter was poised to enter the wizarding world, and it was time for Severus Snape to keep his promise.


	5. Wizards in Little Whinging

Three days was by no means the longest stretch of time that Harriet had ever been shut in her cupboard. However, Uncle Vernon hadn’t been bluffing when he’d threatened to withhold food, and three days is a long time for a growing girl of eleven to go without nourishment. It wasn’t _entirely_ starvation, as Harriet had long ago learned to hide whatever small foodstuffs she could smuggle out of the Dursleys’ kitchen hidden in a shoebox in the cupboard for emergencies. Therefore, she had subsisted for the past seventy-eight hours on two stale heels of bread, one apple, a handful of crisps, and a miniature Mars bar, along with sips of water out of the sink during her once-daily bathroom visits. But the presence of these meager rations didn’t mean that she wasn’t extremely, unpleasantly hungry, the kind of hunger that announces itself not just with a growling belly but also with trembling limbs and vision that occasionally grew black spots around the edges— although, for all Harriet knew, that could have just been a result of being kept in a lightless cupboard. At any rate, she would break before long, and she knew it. She had perhaps another day of stubbornness in her before she would be forced to tell her aunt and uncle _something_ , anything, in exchange for something more to eat. She was determined to make it through that last day, though. Harriet would satisfy Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon only when her body truly failed her. 

When the commotion outside began, Harriet wondered if that failure had come sooner than expected. Was she hallucinating? She had heard the doorbell ring and ignored it, assuming that one of Dudley’s friends had come ‘round. He’d have to wait; the Dursleys had gone out to the cinema and hadn’t yet returned. But the rising babble of voices from the doorstep didn’t belong to Piers Polkiss or any of Dudley’s other cronies… 

“… to proceed? If they’re away, the owl would have found her elsewhere.” 

“P’raps we oughta come back later?” 

“No, Hagrid. The owls are here; the girl must be as well.” 

The first voice was female, with a hint of Scottish brogue, and obviously belonged to an older woman— older than Aunt Petunia, at least. The second was male, loud and earnest. The third voice made Harriet shiver a little: it was low, smooth, and cold. 

“We can’t just—” the woman began, but she was interrupted by her low-voiced companion.

“Oh, but we can.” The voice sounded darkly pleased. “I am not a vampire, Minerva, and I do not need an invitation to cross Petunia Dursley’s threshold.” 

“Severus—”

 _Bang._ Harriet jumped at the explosive noise, and suddenly, the voices were _right there_ , directly outside her cupboard as if the barrier of the front door had simply been eliminated. Three sets of footsteps were crossing into the Dursley’s front hall. 

“Severus!” The woman exclaimed. “Was that _entirely necessary_?” 

The dark voice didn’t bother with an answer, just muttered, “So where is the wretched child? _Homenum Revelio._ ” 

Harriet felt an unpleasant sensation shudder through the air just above her, as if some low-flying bird or bat had swooped over her head, barely brushing her with its wings. At the same time, to her fascination and horror, the door of her cupboard began to emit a faint golden glow. 

“What in Merlin’s name?” The woman’s voice had fallen to a shocked hush. Footsteps came still closer, and then Harriet heard the latch sliding open. She shrank back against the wall,, her heart pounding quickly and erratically. _Who? What?_ But Harriet’s thoughts were scattered, her head throbbing with the dull pain that had begun to set in sometime that morning. So when the cupboard door was pulled open and light filtered in, all Harriet could do was stare helplessly. 

There were three figures before her. A severe-looking woman in a green cloak and pointed hat clutched the arm of a man who simply looked too big to be _allowed_ , a man who was crouching down so that his face, largely obscured by a bushy beard and enormous caterpillar eyebrows, was level with the cupboard door. Slightly in front of them, closest to Harriet, was a slim, sallow man dressed all in black. Harriet knew instinctively that the low, cold voice belonged to him; she could all but see it in his fathomless black eyes. Her gaze flickered between the three strangers— and what _strange_ strangers they were. With new comprehension, Harriet took in the woman’s pointed hat and the first man’s unnatural size. 

“Oh,” she said at last, breaking the silence that had hovered over the hall since the cupboard door had been opened. “The magic school. That makes sense.” And then Harriet Potter’s breaking point arrived with utter and startling finality, and she fainted. 

* * *

Minerva had imagined James and Lily’s child before. She had, after all, been a fairly unremarkable-looking infant except for the lightning-bolt curse scar, and Minerva couldn’t help but wonder how she would grow to resemble her parents, two of Minerva’s favorite students— even if her fondness for James had been tinged with exasperation more often than not. So she had occasionally allowed idle thoughts to cross her mind, blending James and Lily’s features into vague images of the girl who had defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But she had never imagined _this._

Harriet did, indeed, closely resemble her parents: she had those strong Potter facial features through and through, and from what Minerva had seen of the girl’s eyes before they had fluttered closed, they had been bright Lily Evans green. But Minerva had always pictured a girl who looked healthy and contented, with the slight roundness of face and softness of limb that tended to accompany childhood. She had _certainly_ not envisioned this… _waif_ of a girl, eyes too big for her thin face, skinny as a rail and hidden away in a cupboard. 

But then the girl had collapsed, and Minerva had no further thought to spare her shock. 

“Severus,” she gasped, starting forward toward the girl’s prone form. But her shadowy coworker was already raising his wand with a muttered “ _Mobilicorpus,_ ” levitating the child off the floor and out of the cupboard. 

Hagrid, for his part, was clumping into the next room. “In here, Professor Snape! Lay the poor tyke down on summat.” Minerva, Severus, and Harriet Potter’s floating body followed the half-giant into the living room, where Severus carefully lowered her onto the sofa. Minerva swept closer, pulling her own wand from her sleeve and waving it in long, slow arcs along the length of Harriet’s form. Severus followed suit. Neither of them was Poppy Pomfrey, but no one got to be a Hogwarts professor without learning to perform a basic diagnostic spell. The readings from the two spells were identical, and Minerva and Severus looked at each other grimly. 

“What’s wrong with ‘er?” Hagrid asked, clearly anxious. 

“Malnutrition and severe dehydration,” Severus said dourly. Hagrid just looked at him blankly. “ _Starvation,_ you dolt,” Severus snapped. “She hasn’t been _fed._ ” 

Minerva made a warning noise in the back of her throat. While she understood Severus’s anger all too well in this moment, and shared in it, there was no reason to be cruel to Hagrid. She met Severus’s black gaze and lifted a stern eyebrow. Severus scowled, muttered something about getting another look at that cupboard, and stalked from the room. 

Minerva sighed and turned to Hagrid, whose kindly eyes were crinkled in concern. “There, now, Hagrid. Miss Potter will be fine, I assure you.” 

“Poor little Harry,” Hagrid said, voice hushed. He took half a step forward and kneeled on the floor next to the sofa, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke Harriet’s tangled black hair gently. The girl looked even smaller with Hagrid’s large hands hovering by. “She’s jus’ a mite,” he continued in a rough whisper. “Shouldn’t she be a bit bigger, Professor?” There were no bones about it; Harriet Potter was very small for an eleven-year-old, even if neither of her parents had been exceptionally tall. 

“Miss Potter has not been provided with the requisite nutrients or care to flourish physically,” Severus said from the doorway, having rejoined them without catching Minerva’s eye. There was something odd about his voice; Minerva peered at him suspiciously. Gone was the anger that had caused him to lash out at Hagrid, and in its place was a cold blankness that made her even more wary. She made a note to look around the house herself in a bit and see what had set him off. “Minerva? Shall we wake her?” 

Minerva took another look at the unconscious girl and then nodded firmly. She leveled her wand at Harriet’s forehead. “ _Enervate._ ” The girl awoke with a gasp and a jolt. Minerva placed a hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Miss Potter. Breathe. Severus, some water please.” Severus conjured a goblet with a quick wave of his wand, and then filled it with a murmured _Aguamenti_ charm. 

“Here,” he said shortly, striding forward and thrusting the goblet at a startled-looking Harriet. Minerva glared at Severus, but Harriet just accepted the drink, reaching out a trembling hand as if she were very tired. 

“Did I… pass out?” the girl asked quietly, her large green eyes meeting Minerva’s as if she was searching for answers in the older woman’s countenance. 

“Yes, Miss Potter, you fainted. I apologize for startling you; it was not our intention.” 

“You’re Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,” Harriet said after a couple sips of water, “From the magic school. Aren’t you?” 

Minerva had barely opened her mouth to reply, when there came a furious roar from the direction of the hall. 

“WHAT IN RUDDY BLAZES HAPPENED TO THE FRONT DOOR?” 

The Dursley family had returned home.


	6. A Welcome Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the enormous update delay. End of the semester, beginning of a new job, etc etc. I should be updating more frequently throughout the summer now. :)

Minerva rubbed the bridge of her nose. This was not how any of this was supposed to be going. When she got back to Hogwarts, she was going to have a long chat with Albus about the amount of nasty surprises that kept cropping up around the Girl-Who-Lived. But for now there was the child herself to contend with, and her relatives, not to mention Severus, who was still sporting that dangerously blank expression that always put Minerva on her guard. She knew that the younger man was extremely loyal to Albus (for reasons that she herself had never been able to ascertain), but Severus Snape had a checkered past that couldn’t be entirely overlooked even in a post-Voldemort world. Severus’s black rages were rather… _something_ to behold, and Minerva had a feeling that he would see the Dursley family as a prime target. Well, at the very least he would contain himself until Harriet was out of the house; Minerva would make certain of _that_. 

“Well, it appears our departure will have to be hastened somewhat,” she said briskly. “Miss Potter, do you feel that you can stand? Perhaps if Hagrid were to assist you?” The girl nodded. There was a determined set to her features that was reminiscent of both Lily and James, a subtle jut of the chin and spark in the eyes. Minerva felt a burst of pride, sudden and unbidden, bloom in her chest. There had been unforseen tragedy in Harriet’s short life, but the child brimmed with Gryffindor spirit through and through. Yes, regardless of the harm inflicted  upon her by these intolerable Muggles, Harriet Potter would be fine. 

* * *

Vernon Dursley was an ugly, walrus-like man, and something in Severus rejoiced at the thought of causing him permanent damage. He had strode into the hallway as soon as Dursley’s bellow had alerted them to his return, with two specific goals in mind. The first was the occupy the Muggles so that Minerva could make a more or less discreet exit with Hagrid and the girl. The second goal was less altruistic; Severus wanted to see the Dursleys bleed. Well, he wanted to see _Vernon_ bleed. He wasn’t entirely sure that he could physically harm Lily’s flesh and blood. Regardless, Petunia would not be happy by the time Severus followed his colleagues from Privet Drive. Then again, Petunia didn’t look particularly happy _now_ , standing in the hallway behind her enormous husband with her bony hand on the shoulder of a blond, rather porcine boy who must have been their son. 

Severus smiled, and it was a predatory thing. 

“Petunia.” 

* * *

“No, no, it’s no use Apparating,” the stern woman ( _Deputy Headmistress McGonagall_ , Harriet reminded herself) was saying to the giant man ( _Hagrid_ ). “I’m sure you realize that I can’t Side-Along the both of you, and I would quite like to have you at hand, Hagrid.” The _in case the child collapses again_ was unspoken, but Harriet could all but see the words pass between the two adults. “I’m afraid that in the absence of a connected Floo, it’ll have to be the Knight Bus.” Harriet looked between McGonagall and Hagrid with rapidly diminished understanding; it seemed as if every other word out of the woman’s mouth was a term that she had never heard before. McGonagall’s Scottish accent also seemed to be thickening somewhat, as if she were growing more distracted, and that didn’t help Harriet’s comprehension any. 

Hagrid made a small, stifled noise in response to McGonagall’s declaration, and Harriet realized that he looked decidedly green. This ‘Knight Bus’ obviously didn’t sit too well with him.  However, he didn’t protest, just clapped a surprisingly gentle hand on Harriet’s shoulder, as if he were prepared to hold her up single-handedly. Honestly, he probably was. 

The hall was suspiciously quiet. After Uncle Vernon’s initial bellow of rage and an ear-splitting shriek of _“You!”_ from Aunt Petunia, not a sound had spread into the living room beyond a low murmur that had to be coming from the other wizard— the Dursleys, after all, were not known for restraint when it came to volume. 

“Does this house have another door, Miss Potter?” Harriet redirected her attention to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. 

“Um, yeah, off the kitchen, but it lets out into the back garden. No street access.” 

“And I suppose it wouldn't do for Hagrid to simply lift us over the fence,” McGonagall muttered. “Too many prying eyes in this godforsaken neighborhood.” Harriet stifled a small grin at that, imagining McGonagall’s reaction should she have witnessed Aunt Petunia’s habit of half-hanging out of the kitchen window in order to see and hear as much of her neighbors’ business as possible. 

“Very well.” McGonagall seemed to have made her mind up about something. “We will move through the front hall quickly and quietly. No… _hysterics_ , please, Hagrid.” Hagrid nodded solemnly, as if he’d had every intention of throwing some sort of fit before McGonagall spoke, but now was seeing the error of his ways. And with that, McGonagall crossed calmly and decisively to the far side of the living room and entered the hall, Hagrid shepherding Harriet behind her. 

What greeted Harriet was as strange and welcome a sight as ever she had seen. The Dursleys were huddled together in a clump against the staircase, Aunt Petunia trying with all her might to conceal a terrified Dudley behind her. Uncle Vernon’s mustache was twitching, but he was otherwise still, and Aunt Petunia looked as though she were fully prepared to burst into angry tears. Facing the trio with what Harriet assumed must be a magic wand leveled threateningly at Vernon’s throat was her third rescuer, the dour black-clad man who had offered her water. 

“Severus,” McGonagall’s voice was calm but held a definite edge, and her accent was once more tightly controlled. “We’re taking the Knight Bus. Please follow when you’re finished here.” She spared a glance at the Dursleys, then returned her attention to the man. “And do follow _quickly_. There’s no need to linger. Here,” she waved a wand Harriet hadn't even realized she was holding, producing a small scroll out of nowhere, “Are the coordinates.” 

The man took his eyes off Harriet’s relatives for the first time since they had entered the hall, although he kept his wand pointing steadily towards Vernon. “You’re not taking her to Hogwarts?” 

“I should say you’re not!” Aunt Petunia shrieked without warning. “She’s not going to that— that _school_ to learn how to be a filthy freak like you, Severus Snape! I swore I’d make her _normal_!” 

_Wait a minute,_ Harriet thought, realization dawning on her as she watched her aunt and the wizard. _Do they… know each other?_

Snape was in Aunt Petunia’s face before Harriet even realized that he had moved. “Normal?” His voice was even quieter than before, and sounded infinitely more dangerous. “What, pray tell, is normal about locking a child in a cupboard, Petunia?” 

Uncle Vernon had apparently lost any remaining patience. “How _dare—_ ” 

But Snape had clearly had enough. He sliced his wand through the air in a hard downward stroke, intoning “ _Langlock!_ ” Vernon went silent, clutching at his throat in what looked like combined panic and rage. 

“I’m taking her home to Poppy,” McGonagall said as though nothing had occurred, although there was some wariness in her eyes. “I believe it will be less overwhelming.” 

Harriet noticed that Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow when McGonagall said ‘home to Poppy,’ but he kept his mouth shut, simply nodding shortly and returning his attention to the Dursleys. 

“Well, then, Miss Potter. Let us be off.” McGonagall strode out of the demolished front door with Harriet and Hagrid at her heels, and Harriet stole one last look into the hall. Harriet was not an overly optimistic girl. She knew that there was every chance that she might have to return to her relatives. But she was leaving them for now, and for now, that was enough.


	7. The House That Magic Built

Wizard travel, Harriet quickly decided, was terribly exciting, but with rather more of an emphasis on ‘terribly’ than she might have liked. While Hagrid ushered Harriet along with a helpful eagerness that almost sent her sprawling onto the sidewalk two or three times, McGonagall had taken out her wand— it was different than Snape’s, Harriet noted, carved of lighter wood and more elegant— and held it straight out in front of her as if she were preparing to conduct an orchestra. However, she had yet to move it or say a single word when the enormous triple-decker bus appeared in a flurry of violent purple and screeching brakes. 

A pimply young man wearing a porter’s cap over his obviously unwashed hair was lolling in the bus’s door, seemingly unconcerned that he and his vehicle had just appeared out of nowhere. “Welcome to the Knight Bus,” he said, reading from a grubby slip of paper but sounding as though he’d memorized the words long ago. “Transport for the stranded witch or wizard—”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Mr. Shunpike, we’re familiar with this unfortunate vehicle.” McGonagall sounded cross. “Allow us to board, please.” 

The youth looked up at the sound of her voice, a rather startled expression on his face. “Professor McGonagall, ma’am! Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, right this way…” He stepped aside and executed a floppy bow. The corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitched, but she swept Harriet onto the bus without another word. Hagrid followed, bent nearly double and holding his breath to squeeze through the door. 

“Stanley Shunpike graduated from Hogwarts a few years ago,” McGonagall said to Harriet as they took their seats in a couple of bizarrely upholstered armchairs near the middle of the bus. “I’m sorry to say that I’m not at all surprised to see that this is what he’s made of himself.” 

Harriet kept quiet, slightly uncomfortable. If McGonagall made the young bus conductor nervous even years after he’d left school, she was obviously an intimidating teacher and not someone to cross. But she’d been more or less kind to Harriet thus far, hadn’t she? 

“We’ll be needing stops in Hogsmeade and Inverness, if you please,” McGonagall called up to Stanley and the driver. 

Stanley nodded. “Right you are, professor! We’ll be makin’ a loop o’ northern Scotland straightaway— Madam Marsh needs Culloden.” He jerked his chin, which bore an extremely unattractive goatee, toward a small woman in a round red hat sitting at the front of the bus, clutching a wand and a handbag as though she feared she might lose one or both. Harriet barely had time to take in the woman’s expression— _what is she so nervous about?_ — when the bus shot forward like it had been propelled from a cannon, nearly smashing into several postboxes and a parked car. Harriet clamped her hands down on the arms of her chair, wishing she could get better purchase but settling for digging her fingertips into the overstuffed cushioning as best she could. 

Stanley, meanwhile, was still talking. “Then we’ll make our next Hogsmeade and Diagon stops.” 

McGonagall nodded to herself, obviously pleased or at least satisfied. “That should do. Hagrid, will you be all right taking the bus as far as Hogsmeade? I’d like you to make a report to Professor Dumbledore as soon as possible.”

Hagrid, who was far too big for the bus’s armchairs and was therefore crouching awkwardly near the door, looked as though he might be sick. Harriet, whose last glance out the bus’s window had revealed that they were traveling far faster than any bus should be able to, didn’t blame him. However, he perked up at the words ‘Professor Dumbledore.’ “O’ course, professor! You don’t need to go worryin’ about me.” 

“Splendid.” McGonagall, Harriet noticed, never leaned back in her chair, but managed to keep perfectly upright even as the Knight Bus hurtled around corners and made hairpin turns. Almost without thinking about it, Harriet attempted to do the same, but was thrown back into the deep recesses of the armchair by the bus’s momentum. 

Fortunately, it only took them about five minutes to reach Culloden, then another terrifying two or three to Inverness. Harriet waved shyly at Hagrid, who shook her hand very gently with just two of his enormous fingers. Harriet decided that she quite liked Hagrid, and was more than a little sorry to leave him behind on the Knight Bus and follow the more intimidating McGonagall onto the street. 

The bus had deposited them on the outskirts of Inverness, and McGonagall led her not farther into the city, but away from it. When the houses and buildings lining the road upon which they trod began to give way to trees and grass, McGonagall pulled Harriet behind an enormous yew tree. 

“Now, Miss Potter, I warn you that most do not enjoy their first time Apparating— that is to say, traveling instantaneously between two points. However, we do not have far to go, so the shock should be lesser.” She held out her arm to Harriet. “Please do hold tightly.” Harriet seized McGonagall’s forearm with all of her not-very-considerable might. She didn’t entirely understand what was about to happen, but she had taken in the words ‘traveling instantaneously’ and was prepared for something very dramatic. 

It was, indeed, very dramatic. The world had seemed to tilt and spin away, leaving Harriet with no sense of anything solid beyond the older woman’s arm to which she was still clinging desperately. They had been squeezed into nothing, and then spit out again. Harriet fell to her knees, dizzy and nauseous and feeling very much like she might faint for the second time that day. 

McGonagall bent down and helped Harriet to her feet. “There, there, Miss Potter,” she said bracingly, but with worry furrowing her formidable brow. Harriet looked up. Gone were the dwindling outbuildings of Inverness, gone was the paved road. They stood in a narrow dirt lane in the countryside— Harriet thought they were in the Highlands but couldn’t be sure. Everything as far as the eye could see was all sedge and hair-grass and heather, with what looked like a herd of sheep in the distance. At the end of the path was a modest white house, two stories with dormer windows and a gray-shingled roof. The house was surrounded by a low stone wall, along which grew yellow buttercups and purple thistle. It was beautiful. 

“You have sheep,” Harriet said. 

McGonagall looked at her strangely, as if whatever she had been expecting, that sentence was not it. Nevertheless, a corner of her mouth tugged upwards in a small smile. “Poppy likes them,” she said by way of explanation. “Of course, we have to pay a Muggle farmer to look after them during term time.” 

“Muggle?” 

“It means a non-magical person.” 

“Like the Dursleys?”

McGonagall’s nostrils flared, and her eyes took on a stormy look. “Yes, your abhorrent relatives would qualify. Now, let’s get you indoors, shall we?” She led Harriet along the path and through the narrow gap in the stone wall. 

As they crossed that barrier, Harriet felt a peculiar sensation wash over her, warm and slightly electric. It was overpowering, and she couldn’t help but gasp. “What was _that?”_

“Protective magical wards,” McGonagall answered. “They keep Muggles from discovering the house unless I desire it, and repel those wizards who may wish us harm.” 

The house had a Dutch door with the top half already open to the Highland air. McGonagall unlatched the bottom portion to let them both inside. “Poppy?” she called. Harriet looked around. They stood in a hallway that appeared to stretch all the way to the back of the house with rooms branching off of it on either side. The white walls were hung with photographs, and the floor was a dark wood that was partially covered by a scarlet runner. At the very end of the hall stood a handsome grandfather clock, which had, oddly enough, three faces.

Another woman appeared in the doorway nearest the clock. “Minerva McGonagall, what _time_ do you call this? Your meetings with the Headmaster never take this long!” She jabbed a finger at one of the clock faces and then started down the hall toward them, only taking a few faltering steps before pausing, blue eyes lighting upon Harriet. 

“We have a guest,” McGonagall said, a little wearily. “This is Harriet Potter. Miss Potter, this is Madam Poppy Pomfrey.” 

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes had widened for some reason upon hearing Harriet’s name, and her hand had flown to her mouth. Harriet ignored this odd behavior and took the chance to study the other woman. She was a nearly perfect contrast to McGonagall— short where the latter was tall, with soft features and gently curling hair, wearing a pale blue witch’s robe. While her features suggested that she was close in age to McGonagall, maybe even a little younger, her hair had gone gray where McGonagall’s— at least from what Harriet could make out under the pointed hat— was still jet black. 

During her observation of Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall had begun speaking again. Harriet wasn’t paying attention, but she caught the main points. _Unprecedented circumstances, Poppy. Malnourished. Needs medical attention._

“Silly woman, why in the world didn’t you send a Patronus ahead? I could have been ready for her by now.” Pomfrey seemed as if she had recovered from whatever brief spell hearing Harriet’s name had placed her under. She all but swooped forward, taking Harriet by the wrist with one hand and waving a wand over her with the other. Harriet was taken aback, both by Pomfrey’s swift actions and by the fact that she had called stern, intimidating Deputy Headmistress McGonagall ‘silly.’ 

Pomfrey bustled Harriet down the hallway and into the room that she had initially appeared from, with McGonagall close on their heels. Harriet caught a closer look at the grandfather clock as they passed it; the three faces were labelled ‘Home,’ ‘Hogwarts,’ and ‘Other,’ each with two hands and a series of symbols and pictures around the edge where the numbers usually were. 

The room they entered was a kitchen, but Harriet only got a cursory look at it— more white walls, a yellow tablecloth, and _was the wooden spoon in that bowl stirring all by itself_ —before she was hurried into a larger adjoining chamber. This space seemed to be part storeroom, part workroom, and part greenhouse, with three enormous windows that took up most of the front wall and let the evening light stream in. Another wall was largely taken up by a worktable and several cabinets, while a third boasted shelves of potted plants. 

Pomfrey pulled a three-legged stool out from under the worktable and guided Harriet into a sitting position with a firm hand. She gave the stool a disparaging look, and flapped her hand at it as she hurried over to one of the cabinets. “Minnie, would you?” 

McGonagall, Harriet was both amused and slightly horrified to see, blushed at being called ‘Minnie,’ but she nevertheless waved her wand at the stool, which promptly began to transform with Harriet still on it. When it had settled again, she was now seated in a high-backed armchair— not nearly as well-stuffed as those on the Knight Bus, but large and comfortable enough. 

“I’m going out front to meet Severus,” McGonagall muttered, her cheeks still pink. “He should be here any moment.” 

“Severus _Snape_?” Pomfrey exclaimed, whirling around with a small bottle in each hand. “He’s coming _here_?” But McGonagall had already swept out through the kitchen and into the hall. Pomfrey shook her head and made a _tsk_ -ing noise as she uncorked both of the bottles and brought them over to Harriet. She handed one over, indicating that Harriet should drink its contents. “Nutritive Potion,” she said in response to Harriet’s questioning expression. “It will help your body replenish the vitamins and nutrients it’s missing.” Harriet drank the potion, which tasted like nothing so much as liquified herbal cough lozenges. Then she drank the next potion that Pomfrey handed her— “I suspect your head aches? This will help.”— and finally a tall glass of water, taking it in small sips as she was instructed. 

“Now,” said Pomfrey, as she took away the empty glass and set it on the worktable, “Would you like porridge or toast?” Harriet, who was by now more than a little overwhelmed, just stared in response to the question. Pomfrey’s businesslike expression softened. “You need to eat something simple, dear. Something that won’t make your stomach cramp. Would you prefer porridge or toast?” 

“P-porridge, please,” Harriet whispered. She didn’t know where her earlier bravado had gone. She had handled Apparating, and the Knight Bus, and strange witches and wizards. She had left the Dursleys, left _England_ , and she was fairly certain that she had seen some of the photographs in the hallway move. She had dealt with it all, just as she had always dealt with whatever hardship came her way. But she was growing more exhausted by the minute, and didn’t quite know what to make of so many adults being so kind to her. 

“Porridge it is.” Pomfrey smiled kindly, helped Harriet down from the chair, and led her into the kitchen. 

_Hang it all_ , Harriet thought with a burst of feeling as Pomfrey squeezed her hand. _I don’t_ need _to know what to make of it._ So, tired and confused though she was, she squeezed Pomfrey’s hand back tentatively, and let herself be cared for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who wants to see how I imagine Minerva and Poppy's house, here's a picture that conveys it pretty well.   
> http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/04/28/article-2613095-1D57ECE700000578-838_964x650.jpg


	8. Morning Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the long wait, and enjoy some fluffy domesticity with Minerva and Poppy!

Harriet didn't meet Albus Dumbledore that evening, nor did she encounter Professor Snape again. She was vaguely aware of people coming and going in the house, of raised voices now and again, and the distinct echoing thump of Hagrid’s large feet, but the room Pomfrey had shown her to was on the second floor of the farmhouse, and distant enough from the downstairs goings-on that Harriet could doze more or less easily. Her sleep was fitful at first, as she couldn’t seem to stop herself from keeping one ear cocked to whatever was happening downstairs— she was awoken once rather suddenly by the sound of an outraged McGonagall crying out “You did _what,_ Severus?”— but after a couple of hours things quieted, and Harriet slept deeply.

She woke to midmorning sunlight, which seemed amplified rather than blocked by the thin yellow curtains that covered the eastern-facing window. Harriet untangled herself from the blankets she had nested into overnight, slipped to the floor, and padded to the window, pushing the curtains aside to look out. The Highlands were just as lovely as they had been the day before— indeed, even more so now that Harriet could devote more of her attention to the landscape. Hills rose around the house like slumbering giants, content to drowse forever beneath their patchwork quilt of grasses and flowers. Harriet recognized the same heather and buttercups that grew alongside the farmhouse’s outlying wall, but there was also an abundance of a white flower that she didn’t recognize, as well as any number of low, wild bushes and shrubs. The sky was a nearly frosty blue that looked uncommonly cold for July, and the sun shone like clarified butter over the whole scene.

Harriet wore no watch, and there was no clock in the room, but it was clear enough from the quality of the light and the position of the sun that it was getting on in the morning, and was indeed much later than Harriet usually rose. But then again, today there had been no Aunt Petunia hammering on her closet door and screeching. Whatever kind of people Pomfrey and McGonagall were, they clearly didn’t begrudge Harriet her sleep.

There came the creak of a footstep outside the bedroom door, as if in thinking of the two witches Harriet had inadvertently summoned one. The door opened a crack, and Madam Pomfrey’s kind, rosy face peered around the edge.

“Oh, good, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm.” Harriet nodded her response, not mentioning the snippets of argument she had heard last night.

Seemingly less than content with Harriet’s answer, Pomfrey bustled into the room, levitating a bundle of something and then directing it towards the bed with a flick of her wand. Harriet was so distracted by this that she barely registered Pomfrey coming closer to her until her chin had been grasped and pushed gently upward, and she was being thoroughly examined by blue eyes at close range.

“Still a bit peaked,” Pomfrey announced, releasing Harriet from her inspection. “But breakfast will help with that, I expect.” She smiled and gave Harriet a firm pat on the shoulder. “Toothbrush, towel, and a change of clothes,” she said, gesturing towards the bundle she’d placed on the bed. The bath is the door just next to yours, help yourself to soap and toothpaste and whatever else you need.” Pomfrey smiled again and then swept out into the hall. She was, Harriet decided, extremely efficient in her kindness.

Twenty minutes later, Harriet was washed, brushed, and dressed in the clean clothes that had been left for her, which consisted of a rather shapeless blue dress that must have been Pomfrey’s— for while it was overlarge on Harriet, it didn’t pool around her feet the way anything belonging to the statuesque McGonagall would have— and a green tartan jumper. She folded her own drawstring denim trousers and boxy t-shirt carefully, placing them at the foot of the bed. Then she slipped her battered trainers onto her bare feet, set her jaw, scraped her damp hair out of her eyes, and headed downstairs. She found the kitchen by sound and smell rather than any recollection of the house’s layout; she’d been far too tired the day before to be shrewd or calculating. But that was all right, she decided, following her nose to the source of the warm butter-and-cinnamon scent wafting through the halls.

The McGonagall-Pomfrey kitchen was just as cheery in the bright morning sunshine as it had been in the rich, subtle light of evening. The yellow tablecloth, Harriet noted with interest, was worked over with delicate botanical embroidery in a slightly darker gold thread, and the white walls were offset pleasantly by a dark wood trim that matched the floor. The window’s wooden shutters, thrown open to the day, were the same soft blue as the crockery that was currently, to Harriet’s somewhat muted surprise, arranging itself neatly on the table. McGonagall was sitting at the table sipping tea, her queenly straight-backed posture and neat green robes somehow not at odds with the cat-shaped house slippers that Harriet could see peeking out from behind a table leg. Pomfrey was still bustling— Harriet was beginning to think that she never stopped— and seemed to be conducting the procession of crockery over her shoulder even while she piled oatcakes onto a plate with her wand-free hand.

“Ah, Miss Potter.” McGonagall’s voice was as crisp as the pleats of her robes, but still pleasant, and accompanied by a half smile and a short nod. “Do have a seat.” Harriet pulled out the chair directly across from McGonagall and slid onto it, pulling up her toes to rest her feet on the crossbar between its legs. “Tea?” At Harriet’s shy nod, McGonagall picked up the wand laying next to her saucer and flicked it at a small copper teapot, which promptly rose and poured a delicate stream of liquid into the blue teacup at Harriet’s elbow. Then there was a slight clatter as what looked to be a sugar bowl and a pitcher of milk slid across the table. Harriet’s eyes widened slightly at the casual display of magic, but she said nothing as she added a lump of sugar to her tea and took a sip. Pomfrey placed a bowl of porridge in front of her, sweetened with honey and cinnamon unlike the night before, and settled into a third chair, placing the plate of oatcakes in the middle of the table. There was a flash of long fingers so quick that Harriet thought she had imagined it, but then McGonagall was eating an oatcake in small, measured bites. Harriet glanced at Pomfrey, who was watching the other woman’s actions with a fond smile. Pomfrey caught Harriet’s eye and winked.

“Well, now,” McGonagall said after a bite of oatcake, seemingly oblivious to the small exchange, “Now that you’ve had some rest, I expect you have questions?”

Harriet took a bite of porridge while she considered her response. The truth was, she had so many questions that she didn’t quite know where to begin. “My parents,” she answered after a moment. “If I’m— um, magic, were they?”

“Yes,” said McGonagall.

“Magic, and lovely,” said Pomfrey.

This sent a little jolt through Harriet. “You knew them?” At this, a little laugh from Pomfrey, and a slight softening of McGonagall’s rather severe resting expression.

“Yes,” McGonagall said again. “Lily and James were both at Hogwarts— Poppy and I have both worked there for a long time, you see. I was their Head of House.”

“And I,” Pomfrey added, “Patched your father up time and again when he landed himself in the infirmary.”

It was as if the two witches had opened a floodgate within Harriet’s very soul, and she quickly forgot her remaining reservations, peppering McGonagall and Pomfrey with question after question about Lily and James’ character, interspersed with inquiries about Hogwarts. By the time breakfast was finished, Harriet had several lovely anecdotes about her parents to tuck away for later consideration, which was more than she’d ever had of them before. That was when talk, perhaps inevitably, turned to their death— which had not been, as the Dursleys had informed her, in a car crash. Pomfrey seemed to retreat into the background a bit for this part of the discussion, leaving it largely to McGonagall, however halting her replies were. And so, it was in McGonagall’s clipped but carefully considered words that Harriet Potter learned of her parents’ murder and her own miraculous survival, of Lord Voldemort and her fame. Of the true story behind the lightning-shaped scar on her forehead.

“And so Professor Dumbledore placed you with your aunt and uncle for protection,” McGonagall finished, her face souring. “Because your mother’s bloodline, through your aunt, could offer a sort of ward against dark magic. Of course,” she sniffed, “That arrangement will not continue.”

Harriet’s heart leapt. “You mean…” she began slowly, “… I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys?”

McGonagall stiffened. Pomfrey swelled. At the exact same time, both witches said, “Of _course_ not.”


End file.
